


Turnabout is Fair Play

by spare



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Card Games, Diamondback (Freeform), Dragon Age Kink Meme, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fake Codex Entry, Fluff and Smut, Gambling, Poker, Porn with Feelings, Romance, Sexual Tension, Solavellan, Spoilers, Strip Tease, The Randy Dowager Quarterly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 12:00:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4745561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spare/pseuds/spare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inquisitor Lavellan engages Solas in a game of diamondback. Sexy shenanigans inevitably ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turnabout is Fair Play

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for the Dragon Age Kink Meme (link up! Yay! Thanks for the kudos!). The original prompt can be found [here](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/13275.html?thread=50547419#t50547419):  
> Apologies to OP (and everyone who might have come across the initial fill) for taking _ages_ to complete this thing.  
>  'Diamondback' as presented in this fic is _very_ loosely based on five-card stud poker. As for the cards/suits, 'serpents' and the 'ace of dragons' have been mentioned in canon, but the rest, including the speckled nug, were made up.  
>  **Disclaimer:** _Dragon Age: Inquisition_ and corresponding characters belong to BioWare. The story below is a free fanwork published solely for entertainment.

_ Tales #108 - The Randy Dowager Quarterly _

_A partly scorched quarterly missive of suspect virtue:_

The Randy Dowager surrenders to the summer heat with the collected  _Nights of Wicked Grace_ , being the rousingly ribald adventures of the aptly named rogue and gambler. Fortunes are lost and favors won in deadly decadent games of chance and chicanery.

The Randy Dowager: Exhibitions for the noble of thought, but spry of step.

The Lady herself says: “Sinfully scintillating. Deft hands and fine tools do indeed deliver a thoroughly delightful denouement. Four scarves fluttered in shock out of five.” - RD

~o~

She's got that look in her eye, the one that plainly promises pleasure and passion before the night is done. Her head is tilted to the side, her lips quirked just so, her short auburn hair an artfully tousled mess that never failed to make his fingers want to thread through it. Altogether, Inquisitor Lavellan made for a most distracting sight.

_Too distracting, perhaps,_  Solas thinks, blinking. He has apparently missed all of what she has just said.

“I'm sorry?” he asks, as nonchalant as he can. He could only hope that he hasn't been staring like some slack-jawed idiot. Not too openly, at least.

“Diamondback,” Ellana repeats. She glances down at one of the books he'd left lying open on the table and reaches for it, her green eyes idly scanning the page. She looks up after a moment, and without missing a beat, says, “I'd like for us to play, if you're up for it.”

Interesting. “I may be,” Solas replies, watching her carefully. “I trust you've been forewarned?”

She smiles. “I have been, yes.”

“And yet you still ask.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Ellana shrugs. “Why not?” she blithely rejoins, as if that should be reason enough. She sets the book down and folds her arms, a single eyebrow lifted in brazen challenge. “Besides, it's not like I didn't come prepared. I've a good-sized bucket ready and waiting.”

He smirks, unable to help himself. “Would it come to that, then, do you think?”

“Why, yes, Solas, I rather think it would,” she responds, smirking back. “Particularly if you prove to be as  _skilled_  as they say.”

And what else is a man supposed to say to that?

What else, indeed?

“Very well, vhenan,” he declares. “Ar lasa ma nuvenin.”

~o~

And so he follows Ellana upstairs and into her quarters barely half an hour later, paying little heed to the knowing looks and discreet half-glances thrown their way. It is no longer any secret—if it ever had been—that the two of them are lovers, after all. They've shared one too many lingering looks, exchanged one too many passionate kisses. Spent one too many nights, of late, warming each other's beds.

No, this evening wouldn't be his first accompanying the Lady Inquisitor to her private chambers. If Solas could help it, neither would it be the last.

Or, rather, he couldn't help  _but_.

He couldn't help but take her in his arms as soon as the heavy door falls shut behind them; couldn't resist capturing her lips in his. He savors these moments alone with her, fleeting as they are, however frequent they may have become.  _Var'melana in'nehn,_  he prays into the kiss.  _Mana lath ma sa'vunin._

Let me love you one more day.

Ellana pulls away after a long, sweet while, arresting his hands before they could venture lower.

“There'll be time for that later,” she breathes, laughter in her eyes, her thumb languidly tracing the outer shell of his ear. “For now, I believe we have a game to play.”

_'Hang the game,'_ he is sorely tempted to say. But he  _has_  committed himself, however ludicrous the notion seems now, and the night is still young.

“Of course,” Solas utters instead, releasing her from his grasp with ill-disguised reluctance. “After you, then.”

That earns him another smile—warm, fond, and absolutely wicked—and it is all he could do not to chase her up the granite steps to have his own wicked way.

Patience, he reminds himself sternly. As she had said, there will be time for that later. He trails after her at a measured pace, keeping to a distance no less than three paces. The divide is not entirely selfless; Solas would have to be blind not to appreciate the view it afforded: the sway of her hips, her delicate wrists, the rise and fall of her shoulders. Watching her move is always a delight, the grace he so admires transforming something so mundane as Ellana walking over to her desk to retrieve a pack of cards into an effortless, unaffected seduction.

“I've got some brandy over here,” she calls out conversationally from over her shoulder, the deck secured in one hand, the other holding up a decanter. “Antivan, I think... It is. Fancy a dram?”

“If it pleases you.” His throat did feel a little dry.

“Let's have it, then.”

They duly settle themselves into a pair of chairs arranged, along with a small, square table, directly in front of the fireplace. As Ellana shuffles the cards, Solas busies himself with the brandy decanter, pouring each of them a glass. Afterwards, she presents the pack for his inspection.

“The dunce,” she says, referring to the wild card in the deck, “Would you like to play with or without it?”

“Without,” Solas promptly replies. He takes the aforementioned card out—a speckled nug in jester's clothing—and slips it, face up, beneath the decanter. Then he shuffles the rest of the deck again and places the stack at the center of the table. “Shall we begin?”

~o~

“I have a confession to make,” Ellana tells him later, her countenance far too cheerful for one with a considerably lightened coin purse, “When I challenged you to the game, I honestly, earnestly, thoughtlessly believed that  _you'd_ end up wearing that bucket.”

“Then I must beg your pardon, vhenan, for letting you down,” Solas rejoins, with all the calm, straight-faced insincerity he could muster. “Also, you are stalling.”

She grins. “That excited to see me take off my clothes, are you?”

Among other things. Pitching his voice a bit lower, he says, “You excite me just by drawing breath.”

The flush that instantly suffuses Ellana's cheeks is beyond gratifying.

“Y-you—” she sputters, then sighs, exasperation and wry amusement writ as plain as the markings on her face.

If he were to lean across the table and kiss her, Solas considers...

But no. Not yet.

_Patience._

Ellana stands up, in any case, in lieu of speaking further, and proceeds to remove first her boots, her loden wool socks, and then her trousers. She places her hands on her hips, her smallclothes partially visible beneath the edges of her tunic, and squarely meets his eyes.

“Well?” she says, attempting to play the coquette, only to laugh at the absurdity a moment later. “It's nothing you haven't seen before, I suppose. In fact, I gather you've seen far more.”

“I have, indeed,” Solas amiably agrees. “Nevertheless—” He allows his gaze to trail appreciatively down her long, tanned legs, “—that doesn't make the sight any less appealing.”

“Sweet-talker.”

“I am merely declaring what is evident.”

Ellana raises her arms in mock defeat. “I rest my case.” She returns to her seat and reaches for the cards, reshuffling the deck with deft, well-practiced fingers.

“You know,” Solas says, watching her deal out their latest hand, “there's a saying that the ancient elves had, once. You may find it useful.”

“Oh? What is it, then?”

“'In dirth bora'him, tu falon enasalin.' One befriends victory by knowing defeat.”

“How comforting,” Ellana remarks dryly, picking up her cards. Her half-smile turns pensive, rueful. “Although, considering what became of the empire—” She discards her tease, the four of serpents, and draws another card, “—that may not be the best idea to take to its extreme.”

“Insightful, as always.” And how. Solas wonders, not for the first time, how different it might have been, had he met her before—before everything. A fool's exercise, to be sure. Making a show of examining his own cards, he continues, “The folly lies in treating defeat as an end instead of an opportunity. One needlessly dwells on one's loss, rather than reflecting on what may have caused it.”

Ellana peers up at him from behind her hand, crossing her legs. “So, simply put, 'Learn from your mistakes'? I should think that the ancient elves would've been better served by those words.”

“I imagine the elves of this era would, as well,” Solas replies, smiling pleasantly. “Particularly the one sitting right in front of me.”

“Insolent ass.” She punctuates the assertion by giving him a gentle kick in the shin. She does not withdraw after the act, however; her bare toes brush deliberately against his leg, feather-light and teasing.

Solas jolts; two cards slip and fall from his hand. A serpent. The jack of wyverns. Both land face up on the surface of the table.

“Ellana—”

“Sorry.” She almost manages to look genuinely contrite; until her lips twitch, obviating her efforts.

“Resorting to underhanded tactics now, vhenan?” he asks, arching an eyebrow.

“I didn't think that you'd actually fall for it,” Ellana responds impishly. She nods towards the rest of the cards. “We'll restart this round.”

“Please.”

A fresh hand is dealt out. This time Solas receives the queen of drakes, the ace of wyverns, and a pair of low-ranking serpents. For his fifth card, the designated tease, he gets the ace of dragons.

Ellana regards the latter with a wistful eye and says, “Looks like luck is on your side yet again.” Her own tease is the jack of drakes.

“That remains to be seen,” Solas returns non-committally. He observes Ellana studying her hand for a moment, shifting ever so slightly in her seat, before electing to replace one of her hidden cards. She does well in showing no visible change in her demeanor, but her eyes, always so expressive, betray her.

A bad hand, then.

He glances down at his own set of cards. After some deliberation, he discards the queen of drakes. Luck is indeed on his side; he draws the ace of serpents for his trouble.

“Your call,” Ellana prompts, looking at him expectantly.

Giving her a subtle nod, Solas says, “Tease me.”

Ellana groans. “Knew it.” Rather than showing just one of her cards—and raising the bet, thereby increasing the number of clothes she may potentially lose for this round—she reveals her entire hand: besides a pair of threes, nothing going.

“A wise decision,” he compliments, displaying his own hand. “I still win, of course.”

“Of course,” Ellana wryly parrots back. She leans back in her chair, folds her arms across her chest, and asks, “So what do I take off next?”

Solas pretends to think the matter over. “Your tunic,” he eventually decides.

She chuckles. “And here I was expecting you'd make me remove my underclothes.”

Tempting, that. “Would you rather I did?”

Giving him a sultry look, she says, “I'd rather remove yours, actually.”

“You... are certainly welcome to try,” Solas replies after a beat. “But first—”

“My tunic; yes,” Ellana finishes for him, unfolding her arms and rising to her feet. Those done, her fingers drift unhurried towards the fastenings keeping her outer garment closed. She unhooks the catches one by one, starting with the uppermost, just beneath her throat. Her collarbone is revealed. The upper swell of her bosom. Her white cotton camisole, the first few eyelets unlaced, the material thin enough for him to perceive the intricate lacework of the breastband she wore underneath.

Watching the spectacle—for what else can it be?—Solas makes a conscious effort to keep his mouth decorously shut.

It doesn't prevent the sudden catch in his breath as Ellana undoes the last of the tunic's catches, the garment fully falling open at the front. She works on shrugging herself free of the sleeves in the same maddeningly indolent manner, exposing her supple, deceptively slender arms inch by tantalizing inch.

“All done,” Ellana announces at last, sounding remarkably pleased with herself, and deposits the tunic to join its brethren at his feet. She straightens her posture. She lifts her chin. She stands before him wearing nothing but her underclothes and a triumphant, impudent smile, her eyes alight with mischief.

Well. She must have noticed the rather obvious tent in his trousers.

She has. “Ena isala halani,  _Solas_ ,” Ellana quips, casting a pointed glance down to where he is, indeed, standing tall.

It is a challenge, of course. A dare.

Would he reach for her? Would he give in? Would he bend her over the table right then and there—

He steels himself.

_Patience._

“Ar din,” he answers back, the denial falling smoothly from his lips. Not that it convinces either of them, what with immediate evidence to the contrary. Solas motions towards the table, regardless; indicates with a sweeping gesture the cards scattered half-forgotten there. “Let's continue the game, shall we?”

“Let's.” There's a teasing note in Ellana's voice as she says it, but she sinks back onto her seat without incident, regal as a queen, her olive skin gleaming golden in the firelight. “It's your turn to deal, I believe.”

~o~

It is at that point, Solas would come to recall later, that his luck would take a sudden turn for the worse.

It isn't that he gets dealt a succession of bad hands; if it is, he wouldn't have won half as much as he had earlier on. It isn't that Ellana gets dealt a succession of good hands, either; if it is, she would have won more. She simply starts playing each hand better, if a bit more prudently than she'd done prior—and Solas does not.

He could not. His concentration is off, thrown in no small part by Ellana, by her state of undress, and by her cheery insouciance despite the lack thereof. Properly clothed, she is already distracting enough—hadn't he thought so before, hours ago? Stripped down to her undergarments, she is doubly so.

Distressingly so.

Success in diamondback is achieved, after all, as much by closely observing one's opponent as it is by getting the best possible combination of cards. If applying oneself to the former makes it essentially impossible to mind the latter, however... Well, therein lies the rub.

And the irony.

And Ellana looking exceedingly, exquisitely smug, laying down her latest hand—two pairs, wyverns and dragons—against his pair of drakes. She'd gone for a second tease, too.

“It appears I win again,” she gleefully declares, leaning forward to collect the six silvers she has just won.

Solas valiantly tries not to notice the way her camisole's neckline slips even lower across her plump, perfectly-formed breasts. He fails. “So you have,” he contrives, voice thick. “Congratulations.”

Settling back in her seat, Ellana regards him with narrowed eyes. “I'm actually starting to suspect you've been losing to me on purpose, the way this has been going on,” she says. “You aren't, are you?”

“Not on purpose, no.” Loath as he is to admit it.

“Then I suppose I'm just lucky,” Ellana concedes with a laugh. “Well, somewhat. I've nearly recovered half of what I've lost this evening.”

“But not your clothes,” Solas points out.

“Not my clothes, not as yet,” she agrees, picking up the cards once again. “I think I'd be saving those for last. Wouldn't want to ruin my—” She shoots him a knowing glance, “—winning streak.”

She must find all this so very amusing.

He would, too. Were he not so preoccupied with trying  _not_  to be preoccupied, that is. “It's certainly quaint how one's fortunes could rise just by shedding a few pieces of clothing,” he says.

“Among other things,” Ellana replies, tongue in cheek. Shuffling the deck briskly, she adds, “It does seem like the less I wear, the luckier I get. Perhaps I should play naked.”

“Perhaps you should.” And perhaps he shouldn't have drunk as much as he had. Solas clears his throat. “As it is rather cold inside your quarters, however, I would ultimately advise against the idea.”

“Says the man who goes around barefoot in the snow.”

“I have other means to keep warm.”

Ellana smiles. “I'm sure you do.” She finishes dealing out their cards for this round, slipping him his tease—the jack of drakes—with a flourish. Her eyebrows lift as she picks up her own tease: the ace of dragons. “This is—what do the Orlesians call it? 'Déjà vu'? Except we've evidently switched places.”

“You're above me now,” Solas concurs. “A position you seem to be enjoying immensely.”

“Only for the novelty of it,” she rejoins, discarding one of her cards and replacing it. The right strap of her camisole slides free, fully baring her shoulder. She fiddles with it absently before tugging it back in place, her green eyes peering up at him all the while. “And besides, turnabout is fair play.”

“Is it now?” He wills himself to look at his current hand: a wyvern, the jack of serpents to go with his tease, and two other drakes. Discarding the wyvern ought to be a matter of course, but should he do it now or after raising the wager? A flux would be riskier, but if played right—

But then he chances a glance back at Ellana, and his train of thought is lost.

“What—” Solas utters, and stops. After all, he needn't really ask. That she's taking off her camisole is all too apparent, her breasts giving a sprightly little bounce as she pulls the flimsy garment up and over her head.

“For luck, you understand,” Ellana states primly, for all that she is now two scraps of clothing away from being completely nude. The camisole she folds into a neat little bundle and places squarely on her side of the table. “'Though now that I think about it,” she goes on, picking up the cards she'd temporarily eschewed in the course of this latest spectacle, “I suppose I might as well add this to the ante. What do you think?”

Solas swallows. “I rather think,” he manages slowly, “that I am dangerously close to forfeiting the game in favor of ravishing you on this table.”

“... Oh.”

Yes. 'Oh.' He relishes the way Ellana's lips part at the exclamation, how she swiftly schools her face from showing the barest modicum of interest despite the telltale heat in her gaze.

“Then  _are_  you—?”

“No, vhenan.” With a gentle smile, Solas shakes his head. “I may be close, but I can certainly... restrain myself. That is—” he continues, holding on to his own cards—and his resolve—for dear life, “—if you yourself can.”

Ellana narrows her eyes. “Now you're just teasing me.”

“I am teasing you  _back_ ,” Solas appends amiably. “Turnabout is fair play, after all, as a certain exceedingly clever woman once told me.”

Letting out a rueful laugh, she replies, “That 'exceedingly clever woman' currently can't quite decide whether to kiss or throttle you.”

“Then perhaps this would help.” So saying, he reveals his wyvern, slipping it next to the jack of drakes. “Another tease, if you will.”

“Hmm.” Ellana checks her own hand for a moment, shrugs, and reveals one of her cards in turn: the six of serpents. “All right,” she pronounces, “I'll bite. And you're raising—?”

“Three silvers.” Solas throws away the wyvern—a predictable move, and one the Inquisitor met with nary a batted eye—and draws another card from the pile. Scarcely sparing it a glance, he adds, quite deliberately, “And every article of clothing I have on my person.”

That, Ellana did not expect. She blinks at him, stupefied, once, twice. “You can't be serious.”

“I absolutely am.” In part to assert his point, in part to tease her further, Solas reaches for the jawbone talisman suspended just beneath his chest. He tugs the amulet free, looping the leather cords loosely about his fingers before gently setting it down on the table. “Well?” he prompts, patient and playful, his free hand now not so subtly moving to adjust the high collar of his outer tunic, “Or would you perhaps prefer that I take this off first?”

“I—yes.  _No._  I mean—” Belatedly, Ellana clears her throat, “— _don't_ take off your clothes just yet. Creators, you're enjoying this, aren't you?”

“I enjoy being with you,” he returns. “That I get to see you in such a delightfully flustered state is just an amusing side benefit.”

Her mouth quirks. “You're getting to see far too much of me as it is,” she huffs, not unfondly, leaning forward to replace one more card.

Solas catches her gaze and holds it. “Not nearly,” he declares. “Not by half.”

“Ah,” Ellana breathes. Her eyes steal briefly down the curve of his mouth, and she swallows, and bites her bottom lip. “Go on, then,” she says, gaze once again meeting his. “Tease me.”

As if he could bear to do otherwise, now. With a veneer of calm consideration that his racing heart did not match, Solas duly reveals the latest card he'd drawn—against all odds, the queen of drakes—and places it next to his jack of the same suit.

She is quick to repay him in kind, flipping over yet another card to reveal—again, against all odds—the ace of serpents.

_A bluff,_ Solas thinks, appraising her other upturned cards: the ace of dragons, the six of serpents.  _It has to be._  Doubtless she holds nothing better than that single pair of aces, and thus has shown it to dissuade him from going for one more tease.

But if it's not—

Well, it would hardly matter at this point, would it?

And it isn't as if he'd actually let this evening end without the both of them ending up naked.

Taking a deep breath, Solas discards his jack of serpents, drawing one last card for the round. Then he reveals his final tease: the eight of drakes. “This quadruples whatever amount we've wagered, does it not?” he asks, thumb beneath his chin.

“In terms of coin, at least,” Ellana qualifies with a lopsided smile. “I don't  _have_  four pieces of clothing left to lose—”

“So I've noticed,” he couldn't resist cutting in.

She coughs. “So you have. And as for yourself, well—” She shrugs, and continues, “—it's all or nothing.”

“All or nothing,” Solas agrees.

It is, of course, time to show the rest of their respective hands. Ellana goes first, emerald eyes bright with excitement, her smile slowly blossoming into a full-fledged grin as she lays down her two remaining hidden cards: the six of wyverns and the ace of drakes. Three aces and a pair of sixes, all in all. A full house.

“My best hand yet,” she cheerfully proclaims. She sits back, draping one leg over the other, and nods for him to reveal his hand.

Solas does not; at least, not immediately. He drinks in the sight of her, so radiant and proud, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I must admit, that wasn't quite what I anticipated,” he remarks, hedging a bit. “Well played.”

“You know me; surprising you is my hobby. Your cards, please.”

“Ma nuvenin.”

And with that, Solas finally turns over his last two cards: the nine and ten of drakes.

Completing, together with his teases, a straight flux, from eight to the queen.

For a long, seemingly frozen while, Ellana could only stare at the cards, mouth agape. Then she clamps her mouth shut, sits up straight, and looks at him curiously, as if seeing him for the first time. “Huh,” she utters at last. “You've got the Dread Wolf's own luck, it seems.”

_You have no idea._ He smiles. “Is that a compliment or an oath?”

“A little of both, actually,” Ellana archly replies, smiling back. She counts out the coins she has so recently lost and pushes them towards his side of the table, along with the bundled-up camisole she had removed prior. Afterwards she rises from her seat, presumably to divest herself of the rest of her underclothes. Before she could so much as reach for her breastband, however, Solas stays her hand.

“Wait,” he calls out, standing up as well. He closes the distance between them in a few short strides, grasping her wrists, his head bowed so as to regard her properly. “Allow me,” is what he would've said right then, but Ellana chooses that moment to tilt her face up to his—

And so, like the besotted, hopeless fool that he is, Solas kisses her.

He can only take so much, after all. And so he claims her mouth as if he has every right to do so, tasting her, teasing her still; and so he releases her wrists to cup the side of her face, entangle his fingers in her hair. And with the same desperate fervor she kisses him back, her bare arms winding about his waist, her lithe body pressing eagerly against his own.

This close, even through his clothes, she must feel how much he wants her, aches for her: his cock hard and throbbing against her stomach, one of his hands stroking down, past the slope of her back, and lower still, to rest on the irresistible curve of her bottom. His other hand soon makes short work of the little knot keeping her breastband in place. He wrenches it off of her with an urgency that has Ellana chuckling into the kiss, only to moan when he then proceeds to fondle her now-unfettered bosom.

She pulls away first, as before. Instead of grabbing his hands, however, she grabs the front of his tunic and shoves him, none too gently, onto the table, sending quite a few coins, their glasses, and the thankfully empty brandy bottle crashing to the floor.

“You are rather forceful tonight,” Solas observes, still catching his breath.

“And you're insufferably overdressed,” Ellana answers back, her voice equally breathless even as she leans over him, her long legs straddling his thigh. “I think that must be rectified—” She nips the side of his neck, “—don't you?”

“Yes,” he rasps. Absolutely.

His belt is the first to go, unbuckled and loosened in the blink of an eye by Ellana's practiced fingers. His outer tunic follows, albeit with considerably more effort; having one's throat nuzzled and licked is, after all, not terribly conducive to the speedy removal of one's clothes. Neither is bucking his hips up, as it turns out, in the course of removing the leather vest he wore underneath, or digging his fingers into the smooth, supple flesh of her ass as she worked her hands and teeth to divest him of his linen underrobe.

No matter. Solas does, eventually, get naked from the waist up, and as he props himself up on his elbows Ellana takes a step back to look him over, her gaze fairly smoldering with lust. He wonders if his own eyes reflected the same.

He fully expects her to return to him then, to push him back down and kiss him senseless, but even now, even in this, she defies his expectations. She turns from him instead and, avoiding the broken glass with ease, walks purposefully towards the bed. It takes but one glance back for him to follow, catapulting himself to her side in a surge of raw magical energy. The force of it knocks them both onto the bed, Ellana on her back, Solas prone on top of her.

“Payback, I suppose?” she glibly inquires, peering up at him with an arched brow and an insolent smile.

“Of course,” he replies, dipping his head to plant a soft, chaste kiss on her lips, and another, not so chaste, down the slender column of her neck. Drawing away briefly, he murmurs, “As is this,” and bites into the delicate skin with his teeth.

She gasps and writhes beneath him, but he is far from done; past her throat he laves a trail of wet kisses. And as he palms one of her breasts, his mouth closes in on the other, sealing her nipple between his lips, licking and suckling the hardened nub in time with every roll, with every upward thrust of her hips.

“Solas,” she cries out, wanton in her need—as much his name as it had once been his folly—and cradles his head in her arms.

His response is swift regardless, a low rumble issuing from the back of his throat, and at her answering moan he grazes his teeth against the underside of her breast, his tongue soon swirling intimately against the sensitized flesh. His other hand scrabbles up her kneecap and over the jut of her hip, finding the waistband of her smallclothes. He drags it down with ease, this last bit of clothing, Ellana moving her legs to aid him along, letting the garment slide off of her feet—

And leaving her, well and truly, naked.

He settles back to admire the view.

She is exquisite beneath him, her brazen body flushed with want, her graceful limbs taut and trembling; desire made flesh, beautiful and wild. A dream from which he wouldn't mind never waking.

But she is no figment of the Fade, no spirit embodying his lust; she is Ellana, huntress, herald, bringer of hope, his one sole solitary anchor in a world gone awry.

“My heart,” Solas says, his voice breaking.

She is that, too.

She's also looking up at him in a way he couldn't quite define, her green eyes glistening. She does not speak; she simply takes his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. Her grip slackens, afterwards, but she doesn't let go.

Neither does he. Instead he lifts her hand to his lips and kisses it.

Ellana sighs, still wordless, and drapes her forearm over her eyes. “You,” she laughingly pronounces, after a time, “can be so ridiculously romantic.”

“Hardly my fault,” he rejoins with a smile, kneeling over her and bringing both of her hands to her sides. “You can be so ridiculously inspiring.”

She bends her knee so that it brushes against his groin teasingly. “Am I now?”

“Yes,” he hisses through his teeth. “Ellana—”

But that's when she wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him down for another kiss, effectively granting Solas a far more preferable medium to convey just how inspiring she can be. He does so with aplomb, committing every inch of her mouth to memory: her tongue against his, hungry and hot, soft and sweet and thoroughly addicting; her sharp little intake of breath as one of his hands finally reaches the juncture of her thighs.

He finds her soaking wet, his fingers delving into her slit and coming away absolutely coated in her slick. When he thumbs the swollen pearl of her clit, she lets out a throaty whimper; another as he strokes the outer folds of her sex. Her hands grope frantically along the back of his neck, his shoulderblades, his arms.

She is tightly wound, now, more than ready, and Ellana expresses this in no uncertain terms when her fingers latch onto the fastenings of his trousers. She undoes these all too swiftly, Solas grunting his encouragement as next she tugs both his breeches and his smallclothes down, easing them just past his buttocks. Soon she's grasping the base of his newly freed cock, caressing his balls with the tips of her fingers. Soon he's gasping into her mouth as she runs that same sinfully skillful hand along the length of his erection. Soon she's grinding herself onto his fingers, spreading her legs wide, her other hand digging desperately into the small of his back.

Ellana chokes out a ragged “Please,” the moment they break apart for air, and that is it, the spark that snaps his last remaining thread of self-control. He surges into her sopping cunt in one hard thrust, not stopping until he's buried all the way to the hilt inside her. She lifts her pelvis eagerly, hissing as she guides him in, hooking one leg over his hip to try to take him even deeper.

For a few fleeting seconds, Solas stills himself, simply savoring the warm wet feel of her flesh stretched tight to accommodate his cock. She's gazing at him through heavy-lidded eyes, her mouth parted and panting for breath. Both widen as he draws his hips back, sliding out of her until only the tip of him remained, only to plunge back in again; the first in a series of rhythmic thrusts that soon has her keening.

“Faster,” she wails, arching into him, her nails raking furrows down the bare skin of his back. “ _Fenedhis_ , isala—”

He is all too happy to oblige. He slips his arms under her shoulders and holds on tight as he begins pounding into her in earnest; hard and fast, his hips pumping furiously in a frenzy of lust, every nerve in his body singing yes,  _yes,_  fire in his blood, all the world narrowed down to himself and Ellana.

“Vhenan,” he whispers solemnly against her ear, only to groan when she locks her ankles behind him, the shift making the tender muscles of her cunt spasm deliciously around his shaft. He rains ardent kisses on her lashes, her cheeks, her chin, on the spot where he'd bitten her neck.

All the while she's moaning, her eyes squeezed shut, her head thrown back against the mattress. She ruts back against him, striving to match the ever-quickening pace of his thrusts. She is close; he could feel it in every snap of her hips, in every clench and quiver of her sex, in the way she clamps her arms around his back.

He is, too. He drives into her again and again, pistoning his hips, sheathing himself repeatedly in her tight wet heat.  _Almost there,_  he thinks, blood thundering in his ears.  _Almost—_

Ellana comes with a strangled cry, her back arched, her cunt convulsing around his cock. Solas shouts and thrusts in again, once, as deep as he can, and follows her to the precipice.

~o~

He's still buried inside her when he comes to his senses, his face tucked against the crook of her neck, their nether regions sated and slick and sticky with their combined juices. Ellana's stroking the outer shell of his ear, slowly, soothingly, much like she had before. As such, it takes him a few moments longer to lift his head and peer at her face.

She is beautiful; but then she always is. In the dim light her green eyes gleam. Sounding remarkably unconcerned, she quirks an eyebrow at him and says, “We're a mess.”

And then she smiles.

And then, of course, he has to kiss her again.

Much later, Solas would comment, “We never did get to finish our game, did we?”

“Oh, but we  _did_  finish,” Ellana would quip back. At his snort, she chuckles and appends, “Just not the game. So, no. No, we didn't.”

A beat.

“I don't suppose—” She trails off.

“Yes, my heart?”

“I only thought, well, while we may not be up for more diamondback tonight,” she continues with a shrug, “that doesn't mean we couldn't go for another round at a later date, does it?”

His lips twitch. “We could go for another round now, if you like.”

“You're dreadful,” she laughs, and holds him even closer. “But yes, I'd like that. But only if I get to be on top.”

“As you wish,” he says. He leans down and busses the tip of her nose.

_Sa'vunin, vhenan,_ Fen'Harel thinks.  _Mana lath ma sa'vunin._ He gathers her in his arms.

And then he rolls them over.

~end~

**Author's Note:**

> AFAIK, there is no actual summer edition of The Randy Dowager to be found in DA:I. The one used here was my own invention, patterned after the other editions that do exist. ~~(If BioWare were to use it though I'll die happy.)~~ Thanks for reading!
> 
> **Fuzzy Elven:**  
>  vhenan – heart (a term of endearment)  
> Ar lasa ma nuvenin – It shall be as you ask./I'll grant what you ask.  
> Var'melana in'nehn – (Let me) enjoy our time together.  
> Mana lath ma sa'vunin – Let me love you one more day.  
> In dirth bora'him, tu falon enasalin – In knowing defeat, (one) befriends victory.  
> Ena isala halani – Looks like (you) need help./(You) appear to be in need of assistance.  
> Solas – pride; to stand tall  
> Ar din – I do not.  
> Fenedhis – a common Elven swear word


End file.
